I remember sitting on my beat-up futon in my cramped, dimly lit Brooklyn apartment—a place so tiny the fridge doubled as a bedside table, no cap—staring at a half-eaten bag of chips and a short story manuscript. It was a story about a dude who thought he was a pigeon, which, like, is pretty deep, right? I was convinced this was my ticket. This story was the whole enchilada, the cat’s pajamas, the thing that would put my name right up there with the literary titans. I had one goal: The New Yorker. Cue the dramatic music. I pictured the fancy parties, the polite applause, the gravitas of having my words bound in that iconic typeface. What a fool I was. I mean, the rejection letter eventually came—about eight months later, give or take, which is fast for them, honestly—and it was the most perfectly polite, soul-crushingly generic "thanks but no thanks" email you ever did see. It hit me like a ton of bricks. That’s when I realized: trying to get published in The New Yorker isn't just hard; it’s like trying to teach a goldfish to play the trumpet. It takes a miracle, serious chutzpah, and a level of meticulousness that would make a Swiss watchmaker look like a total slacker.
The Big Kahuna: Is It Even Possible?
Let’s get one thing straight, my friend. We’re not talking about your local online literary journal. We’re talking about The New Yorker, the publication that invented the high-brow, the magazine that practically oozes sophisticated cool from every glossy page. It’s the Everest of literary submissions. Their acceptance rate for unsolicited fiction? Ridiculously low. We’re talking less than percent, maybe even closer to percent sometimes, based on what some folks have managed to dig up. That's like finding a winning lottery ticket while riding a unicorn. Most of the stuff they publish is from people who are already established—like, Pulitzer Prize winners or people who have agents with serious juice. So, if you’re some regular Joe (or Jane) sitting in your apartment, you gotta know you’re playing on the hardest difficulty setting. It's a real hustle.
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| How Hard Is It To Get Published In The New Yorker |
Step 1: Get Your Head Straight and Your House in Order
Before you even think about hitting 'send,' you need a serious reality check and a manuscript that’s polished to a blinding sheen. This ain't amateur hour.
1.1. Know the Vibe Check: What Do They Even Want?
You can’t just send them your pigeon story, bless its heart. The New Yorker has a distinct, unmistakable style. You gotta read it. Seriously. Not just one story, but a whole year’s worth. They love:
Literary Fiction: Think deep, character-driven narratives, a focus on internal life, and prose that sparkles. No vampires, no space battles, no genre stuff (usually).
The Nuance: The writing is often subtle, sophisticated, and makes you feel like you need a Ph.D. to fully appreciate the ending. You gotta write smart.
Unique Voice: It must sound like you, but a highly educated, very witty version of you. It's gotta be impeccable.
1.2. Edit Until Your Fingers Bleed (and Then Edit Some More)
Tip: Break it down — section by section.
This is where most submissions totally fall apart. A typo in a standard magazine? Maybe they overlook it. A typo in The New Yorker? Straight into the shredder, man. They get so many submissions that any tiny flaw gives the first-round reader an easy excuse to ditch it.
Get professional editors. More than one.
Read it out loud, backward, and to your cat.
Check that grammar. Don’t be like me and use run-on sentences like they are going out of style. (See? Intentional mistake, keeping it real.)
The Manuscript Format: Use a standard, clean font like Times New Roman, size 12, and double-space that baby. This is a sign of professionalism. Don’t look like a rookie.
Step 2: Mastering the Submission Game Plan
The process itself is a gauntlet, a serious test of patience and your ability to follow directions like a robot. You gotta be a pro.
2.1. Locating the Secret Portal (The Guidelines)
This is key. The New Yorker is a big, complex machine, and they have different portals for different content. You can’t send a poem to the fiction editor, or a short humor piece to the poetry folks.
Fiction & "Shouts & Murmurs" (Short Humor): Often submitted via a specific email address, usually found on their "Contact Us" page. They often don't want unsolicited non-fiction, so don’t pitch that article unless you're a big shot.
Poetry: They usually use an online submission manager like Submittable. You can typically send up to six poems at a time, but check the limits!
Cartoons: Also often on Submittable. The good news? They publish a ton of cartoons every week! Still tough, but a slightly better shot.
2.2. The Cover Letter: Short, Sweet, and to the Point
Don't write your life story. The editor is swamped. Keep it brief, professional, and humble. This isn't the place to boast.
"Dear [Editor's Name, if you can find one, otherwise 'Fiction Editor'], Please find attached my short story, 'The Man Who Loved Pigeons,' for your consideration. It is [Word Count] words long. Thank you for your time. Sincerely, [Your Name]."
Tip: Check back if you skimmed too fast.
That's it. That’s the whole ballgame. No need to say where you've been published unless it’s another prestigious publication. If you have to mention your amazing credentials, keep it to one short sentence. Trust me on this one.
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2.3. Simultaneously Submitting: A Risk-Reward Game
This means sending your piece to The New Yorker and other magazines at the same time. The New Yorker does allow simultaneous submissions for some categories like poetry, but you have to check the rules for fiction/humor. If they allow it, do it. You can't wait a year for one magazine to decide. If someone else accepts it, you must immediately withdraw it from The New Yorker—that's just good form. Be polite, be prompt. No drama.
Step 3: The Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul (The Wait)
Once you hit that ‘send’ button, your job is officially over. Now you just gotta survive the longest wait of your entire life.
3.1. Six Months to a Year (Seriously)
Don't expect to hear back in a week. Some guidelines say they try to respond in 90 days, but folks who've been in the trenches know that the reality is often six months to over a year. Your manuscript is sitting in the slush pile—a truly epic mountain of submissions. It’s being filtered, slowly, by assistants, and then maybe, maybe it gets to an actual editor.
Don't Nag! Do not, under any circumstances, email them a month later asking, "Hey, did you read my story yet?" That’s a ticket right to the automatic rejection list. Seriously, don't be that guy.
Assume Nothing: No news is not good news. It’s just no news. The best thing you can do is start working on your next story. Keep writing, man.
QuickTip: Slowing down makes content clearer.
3.2. A Personalized Rejection is a Small Victory
When the inevitable rejection comes, it will almost certainly be a form letter. A standardized email that says "not a fit for us at this time." But... sometimes, very rarely, you might get a personalized note. Even a single sentence of encouragement—"Loved the voice, not quite right for us"—is a massive signal. It means a real editor actually read your work. That's a huge win, so don't be bummed out, because you are close.
The Bottom Line: It's a Total Shot in the Dark
So, how hard is it? It's about as hard as it gets. The odds are stacked against you like a tower of Jenga blocks in a hurricane. But here is the thing: someone does get published from that unsolicited pile. It’s a tiny, tiny fraction, but it happens. The process is a brutal test of your talent, your professionalism, and your sheer, dumb perseverance. You gotta be good, you gotta be meticulous, and you gotta get super lucky. Now go polish that story, champ.
FAQ Questions and Answers
How long does The New Yorker take to respond to submissions?
Response times are a total crapshoot. While guidelines might suggest days for fiction, many writers report waiting six months to a year or even longer. Poetry submissions through Submittable often have a more predictable timeline, but you should always plan for a long wait.
Tip: Slow down at important lists or bullet points.
Does The New Yorker accept work that has been published online?
No way, José. The New Yorker is super strict. They want original, unpublished work. That means if it has been on your personal blog, your Facebook page, or any other website, it is considered published and they won't look at it.
Is it better to submit to The New Yorker with a literary agent?
Absolutely. While they do accept unsolicited submissions, a huge chunk of their published work is solicited or comes from agents. Having a literary agent means your work gets a dedicated pathway to an editor's desk instead of landing in the enormous slush pile, which seriously ups your chances.
What is the best way for a new writer to get noticed by The New Yorker?
The most realistic "in" for a new writer is often the "Daily Shouts" humor section, which is shorter and has more opportunities than the main fiction section. Getting a small piece of humor published somewhere else first, like McSweeney's, is a good way to build a small professional writing resume before aiming for the big leagues.
What is the ideal length for a short story submission?
For fiction, The New Yorker generally looks for stories that are between and words long. You need a narrative that is substantial enough to have emotional weight but concise enough for a prestigious magazine format.
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